


Scratch the Itch

by jupiter_james



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x14 coda, Hate fucking, M/M, PWP, Top Dean, flip fucking, only porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10059914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiter_james/pseuds/jupiter_james
Summary: Dean and Ketch let out their aggression on the war room table. This ficlet is a coda for spn 12x14





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is no editing. I just needed to write this after watching 12x14.

Someone once told Dean he makes his worst decisions in that red shirt. It might be true. He doesn't fucking care most days. Not the way this fucking year has been going. Not the way this fucking _day_ had been going. 

"What are you? One of the Men In Black? Seriously, you look like a douche."

"Why can't there be style _and_ substance?" Ketch answers, bored. 

"'Cause I'm not sure you got either," Dean snipes back. For fucks's sake, what's the matter with this guy? He's been leeching on Dean with weird looks and a sociopath's smile for a week, and Dean's got no better read on him than he does of Sam's old law textbooks. It's infuriating. He needs to know what makes the guy _tick_. No one ever is just hunting and drinking. Humans don't work like that.

"Getting more clever with your comebacks. That's nice," Ketch drawls, flipping open his bag of tricks. It also pisses Dean off that he recognizes about half of them and isn't entirely sure he _wants_ to know about the rest. He's a traditionalist. Give him a gun, knife, freaking lance, and he's good. But Ketch seems to get his weirdo rocks off the more fancy the weapon. Usually, the less weapon-looking it is. Shit ain't natural.

He grunts in response because the only comeback he'd had was, "yeah, so's your face." Which really wouldn't work at all in this situation.

Both of them should be feeling better by now. They're bruised up, sore, Dean thinks he's got some gore in his hair, and a whole werewolf pack is off the map. It's a job well done. He should feel better.

"Job well done," Ketch says without emotion.

Dean grinds his teeth.

Ketch leans against the war room table, cold eyes assessing. Dean's not sure if it makes his skin crawl or not. "You seem... worked up still."

Slamming his gun to the table, Dean bites, "yeah, well, maybe I am."

A smile flits across Ketch's face, and there's a definite feral edge to it. "I usually find the aftermath to be quite relaxing."

"I don't like the way you do things," Dean blurts. Even he's not sure where that came from, except that Ketch's MO makes Dean itch in his soul. He can't scratch it. Can't calm it. Can't wish it away. It's just _there_.

Rolling his eyes, Ketch answers, "you mean that girl? We had to know if there were others in her pack that we missed."

Dean wheels around, stomping until he's an inch away from the man. "Like that vampire? Man, if you're gonna get off on torture like that, then we aren't gonna work."

Ketch's dark eyebrows dip into that dangerous expression that lights his eyes. It's the only look Dean's seen on him that's not pure boredom or dark humor, and it could be scary, except for the way that the scary feels pretty fucking thrilling. In an instant, Ketch has Dean by the front of his red shirt, yanking him until they're nose to nose. "Or _you_ could tell me why one of the best hunters I've ever known won't do the nastier parts of the job."

"Fuck you," Dean answers.

There's that poisonously aroused smile again. His voice is only a breath louder than a whisper. "You think I don't see it, but I do. You've _been_ there, haven't you, Dean? You've been the one kneeling on the ground begging, _and_ the one making them?" He holds up a finger to Dean's lips when he opens them to answer. "You don't have to lie to me. I _know_ you." He readjusts his hold to yank Dean's chin down. "You're a sinner _and_ a martyr."

"If you start quoting shit to me, I'll stab you." It's weak even to his ears.

"And wouldn't that be interesting?" Ketch murmurs.

He'd headbutt the guy if he didn't already have a pretty gnarly gash on his forehead. "No, it's fucking _not_!"

Ketch is on him like a ton of bricks before he can even react, and Dean prides himself on his reflexes. Not this time, though. Ketch has him pinned against the war table, hemmed in on both sides by his arms, palms flat on the table. Where there should be a kiss, there's a firm bite to his collar bone. When he expects a hand to his back to pull him closer, it's tight on his ass instead. It's off centered, unexpected, and Dean is rock hard in his filthy jeans. In his mind, that must explain why he allows himself to be unceremoniously dumped onto his back and stays down while he watches Ketch rip at his douchy clothes. 

Both of them are breathing heavily, something tears. Dean's eyes flit over Ketch's firm chest, eyes snared by a leaking wound right over his heart. Close call. 

He doesn't think he's ever gotten out of his jeans so fast in his life.

It's almost funny to see that Ketch is capable of an erection, but Dean should have expected since he hasn't missed the looks he gets. Ketch is _starving_ and Dean is _parched_. That's all there is to it. It's a fucking shit show, but it feels incredible.

Ketch is back to him, then, shoving him back and back, swiping at the detritus of their breakfast dishes and books to clear the space. Sam's gonna be _pissed_ about his laptop hitting the floor. Then the British hunter crawls up over Dean's legs until their heavy cocks brush. He seats himself in a hard grind, and the pain makes it so much less real. But not enough to go without something to help ease the way. Dean winces at the dry friction, but fucking _Ketch_.

Something slaps to the table right next to Dean's head. "Always prepared," Ketch growls.

Dean smacks his hand over the small packet of lube. That does it. He's had enough of kneeling for this son of a bitch.

Dean thrusts his knee up, overbalancing Ketch, then rolling with the motion like he'd learned after one too many times being floored by a vampire. Ketch lets out a grunt when his back hits the table, but he doesn't look actually surprised. The predatory smirk makes Dean tear open the lube pack with his teeth. Unflavored. Not like that matters.

"I'm not gonna be gentle," he snarls, pouring half the contents over his fingers.

"Why would you be?" Ketch returns. "I haven't earned that."

Dean lays the flat of his palm over Ketch's dick, pressing down until the man below him moans. Only then does he press his lubed fingers past his rim, knowing instinctively that he needs to go deep or go home, because this isn't playing around. He massages Ketch's cock with the flat of his hand in time to his finger fucking into him. It's tight, but there's no resistance. Ketch knows what he wants, and he'll get it. That's just something that Dean intrinsically knows.

Prep work isn't normally his kink, but right here, it's working. Dean can't stop staring. He doesn't know why he's surprised that the first real expressions he sees on Ketch's smug face are lust and uninhibited pleasure. Vaguely, he wonders what it's like to be that way. He wonders why the itch refuses to be scratched.

Ketch's nails dig into his ass, scratching a burning trail that signals to Dean his readiness. The rest of the lube coats his dick quickly, and for as game as he is to get this bullshit out of his system, he hesitates. Just for a second.

Long enough for Ketch to call him on it. He reaches up and wipes the gathering sweat off of Dean's brow in a startlingly tender touch that nearly ruins the whole thing. But he says, "I think you're just like me."

Dean thrusts into him as hard as he can. Careful to test the resistance, but Ketch likes the pain that mixes with the pleasure. Every silver bullet he'd shot had proved it. He shouts something that sounds like a spell, but isn't. Ah, it's Latin. Ketch likes to be fucked in _Latin _.__

__Dean can't explain how that makes him ache with need. Ketch bucks his hips up, slamming Dean home, and after that, it's blind lust. That pure, raw, perfect feeling that had abandoned him the longer he'd stayed out of Purgatory. He won't say it, think it, feel it, but he'll fuck this smarmy British asshole until neither of them can walk straight._ _

__It's good. It's pissing him off, but that only coils the need tighter. Cranks it up beyond where he thought he could go, though Ketch is good at that even with is clothes on._ _

__There's no artistry. Dean's hips slam home again and again, and Ketch holds on to both him and the table for dear life. His body trembles with every movement. He needs it. He just _has to have this_. _ _

__Dean's orgasm is sudden and nearly painful. His head whips back and he shouts a wordless _yes_ as he comes inside of Ketch. He nearly slips out from the slick mess he's made of the man, but has enough coordination to stay seated firmly inside as deep as he can go while his hand jacks Ketch's dick as fast as he can._ _

__Ketch gasps, arches off the table, and the litany of garbled Latin continues as he spills between Dean's fingers._ _

__He pulls out seconds later, stumbling backwards into one of the chairs, body thrumming. He feels... alive. Finally. Fresh. He's not as angry as he wants to be._ _

__Ketch wastes little time recovering, either. He slips off of the table, only the tiniest tremor in his legs, and dresses carefully._ _

__"You leaving?" Dean hears himself ask._ _

__Ketch tosses him a smug look over his shoulder. "You've been good to me, Dean Winchester. I won't forget that."_ _

__Dean doesn't watch him go. He just listens for the sound of the heavy iron door slamming shut behind him._ _


End file.
